Unholy
by isolde13
Summary: What happens when a brother's love becomes obsessive
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: Wherein you will find: little dialogue, morally decrepit Sam and Wincest of the non-consensual variety.

Unholy (Part 1)

It all starts innocuously enough.

But then again, that's pretty much how a descent into madness usually starts.

This one starts right after a hunt. A very successful one. When Sam and Dean get back to their requisite motel room, Sam collapses on the bed, satisfied but tired. Dean, on the other hand, seems to be made of manic energy. He moves incessantly from place to place, never settling down long enough to catch his breath. He finally throws himself down on the other bed, a wide grin on his face.

"Man, I love this job!"

Sam rolls his eyes, but finds himself smiling only a moment later. Sometimes Dean's enthusiasm for what they do is a pain in the ass, but sometimes it's downright infectious. He turns his head to look at Dean, a smart retort on the tip of his tongue, but something stops him. Dean is lying on his back, his hands linked behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. And on his face is the most amazing look of contentment that Sam has ever seen. He is practically glowing with it.

Sam, disturbed by what he had just been thinking, quickly turns away and stares up at his own portion of the ceiling.

He wonders how he could possibly find his own brother beautiful.

Feeling off-kilter and disconcerted, he pushes that thought from his mind and studiously avoids looking at Dean for the rest of the night. Fortunately, Dean is too wrapped up in his exultant mood to notice.

Later that night, Sam has strange, garbled dreams in which Dean figures predominantly. The following morning he is thankful that he remembers so little of them.

The next few days pass in a normal fashion, or at least as normal as their lives can ever be, and Sam starts to believe that what happened the other night was a fluke. He attributes it to being overtired, missing Jess, and not getting any. A lethal combination if there ever was one.

Yes, everything goes right back to normal...

Until the night that Dean gets a little too close to a demon and almost gets himself killed.

Coming so soon on the heels of watching Dean withering and dying right before his eyes, this is almost more than Sam can take. Dean, however, is fine with it. He takes his near-death experience with a grain of salt, and some painkillers, and promptly falls asleep once they're back in the motel.

There is no way in hell Sam can sleep, especially after seeing his brother almost shuffle off his mortal coil for the umpteenth time. So he watches Dean sleep instead, torn between feeling angry with him for taking so many stupid chances and feeling god damn thankful that he is alive.

After a while, he finds himself moving over to the other bed and staring down at Dean's sleeping form. He's on his stomach as usual, his face turned to one side. He looks so peaceful; almost angelic, with one hand outstretched and his lips parted just slightly, his eyelashes so dark against his skin. Sam reaches out and places his own hand atop his brother's, then leans down to place a kiss on his cheek. He's not really sure why he does it, other than he just wants to be close to Dean. To feel that he is indeed alive and safe.

And to love him just a little, because heaven forbid they show each other any real affection when Dean is awake.

Another kiss follows the first, then another, and another. And, suddenly, unexpectedly, the pulse of his heart beat begins to increase and his finds himself feeling very warm. And what is more unexpected, and infinitely more disturbing, is that he begins to get hard.

He quickly stands up and runs outside into the freezing cold. There he stands, for minutes... hours...days...he doesn't really know. All he knows is that he makes himself stay in the punishing cold until he feels somewhat normal again; until thoughts of Dean's pretty, little mouth have been erased from his mind.

Eventually, he goes back inside, heading for his bed without even looking at Dean. He expects to be up all night, but surprisingly he falls asleep almost instantly.

This time he is lucky.

There are no dreams.

The days that follow are awkward to say the least. Sam feels so guilty he can barely look at Dean, much less talk to him. And Dean, for his part, has absolutely no idea why his brother has suddenly turned so cold and distant.

He tries talking to Sam, even trying to get all 'in touch with your feelings' with him, but Sam is having none of it; if anything he only pulls farther away. Finally, Dean gives up, deciding that whatever bug has crawled up his brother's ass, it will probably go away on its own.

But it doesn't go away; how could it? And a few nights later, Sam finds himself lying awake in bed, staring across the chasm of space that separates him from his brother, and fighting with himself on the subject of whether he will stay here and be good or go to the other bed and cross lines that shouldn't be crossed.

And surprise, surprise, temptation wins out.

Although Dean is sound asleep, he's not under the influence of any painkillers this time, and Sam has to be very careful to be quiet as he creeps up to the bed. Luckily, years spent sneaking up on evil creatures makes this relatively easy. He kneels down next to the bed and watches Dean's face as if hypnotized.

Why has he never noticed how beautiful his brother is?

He reaches out with his hand, suddenly feeling the overwhelming urge to touch that beauty. His fingers touch Dean's brow, ghosting down the side of his face, down to his cheek and across his lips. His fingers, where they meet Dean's skin, feel almost unbearably hot, and he wonders why Dean hasn't woken up yet. Surely he feels that same heat?

He removes his hand and edges closer, not exactly sure what he's going to do. Right now, the only certainty in his mind is the love he feels for his brother and the need to be closer to him. He parts his lips and leans down, bringing himself closer (dangerously closer) to Dean than he has ever been in his life. He is only the briefest moment away from connecting when Dean starts, shifts and wakes up.

Sam pulls away hastily, his heart hammering crazily in his chest.

Dean looks up at him, blearily squinting in the darkness. "Sam, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, Dean," Sam manages to say in a relatively calm voice. "Go back to sleep."

But Dean presses. "Why are you over here?"

Sam stands up, his entire body shaking. He can only hope that it is too dark for his brother to see. "I thought I heard a noise. There's nothing though. Go back to sleep." This last he says forcefully, making it an order.

And surprisingly enough, Dean obeys. He yawns and mutters, "Ok," before closing his eyes and surrendering once again to sleep.

Once he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dean is asleep, Sam rushes to the bathroom and closes and locks the door behind him. He jumps in the shower, turning the water on as hot as he can possibly stand it. His hope is that the burning water will cleanse him, and drive these unholy thoughts of his brother out of his head.

It doesn't work.

It doesn't work at all, and not two minutes later, he is coming into his hand under the scalding water, one fist pounding against the plastic tiles in frustration and disgust as he swears that he will never do anything like this again.

Yet, a few nights later he is back at his brother's bedside. This time he's not at all worried about Dean waking up inconveniently like the last time. He knows the sleeping pills that he slipped into Dean's drink earlier will do their job.

He feels guilt of course; incredible, soul-eating guilt, but he tries to hide it by telling himself that Dean pushes himself too hard and that he needs the rest.

And he's not going to do anything anyway. He's merely looking; keeping watch over his brother.

He's telling himself these lies even as his hand moves through Dean's hair and caresses his face. Since there is no possibility of Dean waking, he doesn't have to be as gentle this time. He makes sure that he can actually feel Dean's skin underneath his fingertips as the caresses turn harder, more insistent.

Moments later, he's turning Dean over onto his back and positioning himself over him.

It is at this point that he can no longer lie.

He knows this is wrong, the kind of wrong that people go to hell for, but that doesn't stop his hands from roaming all over the lax body underneath him. They begin at Dean's shoulders and work their way down his strong, sculpted chest before settling on his stomach. Sam splays his hands wide, stretching his fingers to touch as much as possible. He keeps expecting some kind of reaction from Dean, his brother has always been ticklish there, but there is nothing at all.

The pills are doing their job very well.

He moves his hands away from Dean's stomach, bringing one to Dean's hip, while the other snakes under his t-shirt.

Slowly, reverently, his fingers find and brush against Dean's nipple. It hardens slightly under his touch and elicits a very soft moan from Dean.

That moan is his undoing.

This entire time the guilt has been ever-present, almost like a physical entity, constantly perched on his shoulder and watching his every move. But when his hand slips away from Dean's body and moves down past his boxer shorts and he begins to stroke himself in time to his own panting breaths...all sense of guilt and recrimination are gone. There is only pleasure now, mounting steadily until it becomes unbearable. Mounting and peaking until his body jerks and he comes violently all over his hand while the other hand grips Dean's thigh with the strength of a vice.

As his breathing begins to slow down, Sam takes a look at his hands - one is covered in sticky white fluid.

The other is still holding onto Dean.

He realizes with sickening clarity that it's going to leave a bruise. By morning, his brother will have a purple hand-print on his body and he will want to know where the hell it came from.

That is the thought that propels him from the bed and into the bathroom so fast that he is nothing more than a blur. He kneels down in front of the toilet and vomits until there is nothing left in his stomach for his body to purge and his throat aches and tears stream from his eyes.

Once again, he swears to himself that he will never do this again. He will position Dean back on his stomach, feign ignorance about the bruise and never do this again. Not only is he victimizing Dean but he's turning into the kind of person that parents warn their children about. The kind of person that he himself has always been sickened by.

He will not do this again.

He swears it on everything that he holds dear.

But he does do it again, not even a week later. And the worst part is that he's not even surprised. It's almost like the entire thing is beyond his control.

It goes on like this for weeks, Sam drugging his brother to better molest him at night, while avoiding him as much as possible during the day.

He hates himself for what he's doing, but he's almost completely past the part of trying to stop it. Somewhere along the line, this has become like an addiction. And addictions are so fucking hard to kick when you don't really want to be rid of them.

Today, he follows his brother into their motel room. Despite the fact that they've done nothing but research all afternoon, he is still bone-weary. He sits down on a chair and watches as Dean shrugs off his jacket and throws it on the nearest bed, effectively claiming it as his.

Then Dean turns around and Sam can tell by the deadly serious look on his face that he's about to be interrogated once again about why he's been acting so strange.

"Sam?"

He prepares himself for the lie. "Yeah?" he asks, trying for nonchalant.

"Can I ask you why you've been drugging me?"


	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: Wherein Sam continues to fall down the slippery slope, Dean joins him and the author tries really hard to write some kind of sex scene.

Unholy (Part 2)

The question is thrown out so casually, that for a moment Sam doesn't fully realize what's being said.

Then it hits.

Dean knows. Somehow Dean knows.

"What?" he asks dumbly. It is all he can come up with, what the panic overloading his brain and all.

"Come on, Sam. What do you think, I'm stupid? Just cause I'm not 'college boy' like you, I don't realize when someone's putting shit in my food?" Dean's voice is rising, the anger in it obvious but still controlled.

Sam almost sighs in relief. Dean knows about being drugged and that's really, really bad. But he doesn't know anything else. He can still save this. "Look, Dean..."

"I gotta hand it to you, whatever you've been using is good. It's real gentle. I didn't notice right away. But you had to know I would eventually. So little brother, you want to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

And here, at last, is the moment of truth. The moment that he's been dreading while at the same time anticipating. Sam has known all along that Dean would catch on eventually. He's just chosen to ignore that knowledge, burying it deep down inside him, somewhere near the place where he buries his guilt and shame.

He begins to speak hesitantly, haltingly, because even now, at the big moment, he's still not sure what he's going to say. "Dean, look...it wasn't that long ago that you nearly died. But instead of taking it easy, you've been pushing yourself harder than ever. I guess I just wanted to make sure that you were resting. And I knew you'd never do it on your own."

To Sam's own ears, what he has said sounds like the worst kind of bullshit. Mentally, he curses himself a million times over, knowing that Dean will never believe this.

"What? Sam, I'm fine. I'm completely healed, remember?"

"Yeah, I know...I mean technically I know that. But I still worry so much about you."

Now that he's speaking the truth, the sincerity of his words comes through loud and clear.

At hearing this, Dean's expression softens and the anger drains out of his voice. He sounds more confused and hurt than anything when he asks, "Why wouldn't you just talk to me about this? I would have listened. I mean, why do this?"

Relief co-mingled with surprise floods through Sam's body. Dean is buying it. Somehow, Dean believes him. "I didn't think you would listen," he says. "You're so damn stubborn sometimes. I'm sorry though. I really am. I should have never..." He stops, shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

And he is sorry. More than Dean will ever understand.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and stares at him for a few seconds, his face inscrutable. Finally he throws up his hands and walks over to the bed, snatching his coat from it. "Ok, you know what? I'm outta here."

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"I need some air."

"Dean..."

"Sam, I get that you're worried about me, but this is just...I just gotta get out for awhile, that's all."

Sam nods. He's not about to argue. This is already going better than expected and he's not about to ruin it by pushing Dean for his forgiveness.

He watches as Dean grabs the keys and walks out the door, slamming it behind him as he leaves. Now that the confrontation is over, the excess adrenaline he's got flowing through his body causes his arms and legs to shake wildly. He wasn't even aware of it before, but now it's as if his body is completely out of his control. Without even an ounce of grace, he stumbles over to nearest bed, dropping down on it before he falls to the floor.

As his limbs begin to still, he settles in to wait; there's nothing else he can do.

Dean wanders back in a couple of hours later. Sam quickly turns off the tv that he wasn't really watching anyway, and sits up in bed. He says nothing, knowing that his brother has to make the first move here.

Dean sits down opposite him and laces his hands together in a strangely proper fashion. His face, his entire demeanor, is so calm as to be unnerving. "I have to be able to trust you, Sam."

"I know."

"I mean, if I can't trust you, then I've got nothing, you know?"

With all he has in him, Sam resists the urge to apologize again. He knows his brother too well; knows it would not be appreciated right now. Instead, he says, "I won't let you down again."

"Sam..."

"You have my word, Dean. You don't have to worry and you don't have to be unsure. Nothing like that is ever going to happen again."

Dean takes a deep breath and sits back, apparently satisfied.

But Sam isn't. Not quite yet. "So?" he ventures.

"So...what?"

"Are we ok?"

"Yeah, we are," Dean says. Then he leans forward, pointing his finger at Sam. "But I swear if you ever do anything like that to me ever again, I will kick your ass from here to next Tuesday!"

Sam can't help but smile. "I wouldn't expect anything less, bro."

After that night, everything falls back into place, exactly as it should be. And yes, sometimes it does seem like the hardest thing in the world to look at Dean and not be able to touch him the way he wants to. Harder still is knowing that he'll never be able to touch him that way again. But it's still better this way.

It has to be.

It is the end of yet another hunt. This time they grappled with a re-animated corpse that was being controlled like a zombie _and_ the evil son-of-a-bitch that was controlling it. Fortunately, the evil son-of-a bitch had been a nineteen-year-old kid and easily dealt with. The zombie had been a different story. When zombies are told to do something, they do it. And they don't stop until they've obeyed their order.

This particular zombie had been told to tear them both limb from limb.

And when it set its sights on Sam first, Dean predictably threw himself in harm's way. And almost got himself killed in the process - again.

By the time they trudge wearily back to their motel room, Sam is fuming. Fuck the zombie, he feels like he could throttle Dean with his own bare hands.

As soon as Dean closes the door behind them, Sam whirls around and gets up right up in his brother's face. At times the difference in their heights seems barely noticeable, but tonight Sam all but towers over Dean. And he's not above using this to his advantage.

"What the hell was that about?" he shouts.

Dean backs away, the previously serene smile on his face disappearing instantly. "What?" he asks, honestly baffled by the question.

"Tonight. What the fuck did you think you were doing out there, Dean?"

"Umm...what are you, new? I was saving both our lives and killing the bad guy. It's kind of our usual shtick, Sam."

"Yeah, except that lately, _your_ shtick seem to be putting your life on the line. It's like you have a death wish or something, Dean."

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

"We had a plan. Remember the plan?"

Dean pauses, then flashes his trademark cocky grin. "I improvised."

That was the wrong thing to say. The fact that his brother is making light of this only serves to infuriate Sam more. He takes a step forward, shouting, "What is wrong with you?"

Dean stumbles backward. "Me? What's wrong with you? Why are you so bent out of shape?"

Sam moves forward again, forcing Dean to step back to avoid colliding against one another. "What do you want, Dean? Huh?"

As Sam continues to advance, Dean continues to move backward until he comes up against the motel room wall. He looks around a little wildly, realizing that there's nowhere for him to go.

Sam steps forward, closing any possible gap between them and, grabbing a fistful of Dean's jacket in each hand, shakes him roughly. "Do you _want_ to die? Do you want to leave me? Do you want to leave me completely alone? Do you?"

Dean looks up at him, eyes wide with surprise and a touch of fear and all Sam can think is that he loves this man so much...this stupid, bull-headed, infuriating man...

Caught up in the emotional tide that is threatening to drown him, he leans down, and without thinking about what the hell he is doing, he mashes his lips against Dean's.

The kiss is not loving or tender, or anything that it should be. Instead it's all fear and frustration and anger...

Mixed with a nice, healthy dose of repressed lust.

A volatile combination if there ever was one.

It is over almost as quickly as it begins however, with Sam pulling away from Dean while simultaneously pushing him hard against the wall.

Thought and sanity and reality set back in with a resounding thud. He cannot believe that he has done this, that he has lost control like this. God, he's never been so mortified in his life. If the floor suddenly opened up and sucked him into hell, he would go gladly.

They stare at each other for a long, frozen moment, both of them struggling with their own jumbled, frenzied thoughts.

"What the hell was that?" Dean finally asks after bringing a shaky hand to his lips. He wipes at them as if trying to erase what just happened.

But Sam is already turning away, no longer able to face him. "Oh, man...Oh, man..."

"You kissed me!"

"I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

"You didn't mean to? What, you slipped and accidentally fell on my lips?"

Sam wanders to the nearest bed and drops on it, his head falling into his hands. The tears begin almost immediately and he starts to move back and forth like an autistic child. Why isn't he dying? Why isn't he disappearing? Why is he still here?

"Sam...God, Sam, don't cry."

Still rocking back and forth, Sam mutters, "I don't know what's wrong with me, Dean. I swear I don't. I shouldn't think this way. I shouldn't feel this way. I know it's wrong. I'm so sorry. I'll understand if you never want to talk to me again or see me again, or..."

The feel of a strong hand on his shoulder interrupts Sam's babbling. He clamps his mouth shut, takes a deep breath and tries to wipe away the tears from his eyes.

"Sammy? Is this...I mean...do you want this? From me?"

Sam lifts his head, surprised to find that Dean is kneeling in front of him. "No!" he says indignantly. Then, in a softer tone, "I don't know. Maybe."

Dean nods and looks down, his brow furrowed. Sam knows him well enough to know that he's thinking; really thinking. If this were any other time, he would tease Dean about hurting himself.

When Dean finally looks back up, Sam is shocked at the gravity etched in his features. "Then kiss me," he says simply

At first Sam's not even sure that he heard right. "What?" Then shaking his head vigorously, he says, "No. I can't, Dean."

"This is the reason you've been acting so weird, isn't it? This has been driving you crazy, hasn't it?"

Sam nods, more than willing to let Dean believe that the past few weeks have been about merely wanting to kiss him.

"Then kiss me."

"But you don't want this."

"What I _want_ is my brother back. And if this is what it takes, then I do want this. Besides, it's just a kiss, right? It's not like we're gonna be picking china patterns."

Sam cannot believe that this is happening; that luck is actually smiling down on him for once. And God, he could not possibly love his brother more than he does at this moment. That Dean is willing to offer this to him is so amazing; yet at the same time so like his brother.

Sam straightens. To continue to argue would be stupid. Dean wouldn't have made the offer if he didn't mean it. To be coy is not his brother's way.

As Sam leans down and closes his eyes, his final, rational thought is that this is going to be so much better than those sinful touches in the dark.

So intent is he on his own fulfilling his own need, he does not notice that Dean does not move up to meet him.

Or the look in Dean's eyes right before he lets them close.

This time when they connect, there is no anger. This kiss is tentative and shy at first, slowly deepening as they each get accustomed to the feel of the other. Sam cups Dean's cheek with one hand while the other holds on to his shoulder, anchoring them both in place.

As the kiss continues, it becomes less about novelty and exploration and more about passion and want. Dean's lips are softer than a man's should be and Sam realizes that nothing has ever been this good.

Nothing.

Not even with Jess.

His hand tightens on Dean's shoulder as he slips his tongue inside Dean's mouth; so deliciously hot and wet. But Dean seems to balk at this, pulling back just a little, his body stiffening.

Afraid to push things too far, Sam breaks them apart, then leans his head down so that only their foreheads touch. He is breathing heavily, both of them are, and he takes a minute to not only catch his breath but to let his body slip back into neutral.

Eventually they pull away from each other completely. Sam stares at Dean lazily, feeling blissful and a bit heavy-headed.

"That was different," Dean dead-pans after a moment.

Sam smiles. Leave it to Dean to slice through any residual tension. "But not horrible, right?" he asks hopefully.

"No, not horrible."

Sam hangs his head, so grateful and relieved that it is happening like this. It could have easily gone the other way; with Dean throwing him out of his life and hating him forever. But it didn't. Instead he is getting what he's wanted for so long now. And the best part of all is that Dean gave his consent. And he had enjoyed it. Maybe not as much as Sam himself had, but he'd enjoyed it just the same.

From now on, Sam tells himself, there will be no more tormenting guilt. No more self-derision.

No more hiding.

Sam lifts his head and looks into Dean's eyes. "I love you, Dean."

Dean blinks, looks away. "I love you too, Sammy."

For the first time in what feels like eons, Sam is happy. It's almost frightening, to be able to feel this way again.

Every morning he wakes up refreshed and energetic, ready to take on whatever the world wants to throw at him.

And it is all because he has Dean. All because his brother, the most important person in his life, is with him.

And not just as a brother or hunting companion. The kisses they've shared, the sweet touches, all conspire to add to Sam's contentment.

During the day their time is mostly spent doing research and interviewing people. Killing time usually comes at night. And late at night, when most good people have long since gone to bed, Sam can finally hold his brother close and tell him how much he loves him.

They haven't moved much beyond the minor petting stage, Dean seems pretty reticent about any advancement, but Sam doesn't really care. For now he has everything he could possibly want. And if one day he deems that he wants more...well, he'll just cross that bridge when he comes to it.

On this night they are at a small bar off the interstate. They are not on a hunt, nor are they heading toward one. This is one of those rare moments when they're driving just for the sake of driving; more to feel like normal people than anything else.

Dean, being the one who will actually be behind the wheel, has only two beers and calls it quits. Sam on the other hand, has quite a few more.

Dean finally tells him to stop, that he's going to feel like shit in the morning. Sam listens. He usually does. They go back to the car and drive around until they find what they deem a suitable motel. Dean walks into the office and gets the room while Sam sits in the car and waits.

He sways a little as they make their way to the room and Dean has to put a steadying hand on his elbow. "You ok, man?" he asks.

"Dude, I'm fine. Stop asking."

"Ok. Ok."

They reach the room and Dean pulls out the key with one hand. "If I let go are you going to fall?"

"Just open the damn door," Sam says as he pulls away from Dean's touch. Dean shrugs and unlocks the door, pushing it open to reveal their new home for the next couple of days.

They enter, turning on lights and setting down their belongings as they go.

While Sam plops down on one of the beds, Dean begins to put their things away, opening drawers and stuffing clothes inside with quick, economical movements. Sam watches all of this with interest, enjoying the view of Dean's backside as he bends and shifts.

He feels a familiar tightening in his groin at the same time that his heartbeat quickens. Suddenly it's not enough to merely watch; he has to touch. He stands up and walks over to Dean, grabbing his arm and turning him around. Dean doesn't startle, doesn't resist. It's almost as if he were expecting this. Sam wraps his arms around him and, without any preamble, brings his mouth to his brother's.

Dean's hands are flat against his chest and Sam finds this somewhat feminine gesture oddly endearing. And incredibly hot. He brings one hand up to the back of Dean's head, his fingers trying to find purchase in his short hair. His kisses are hungry and sloppy, falling everywhere in his seeming desire to simply devour Dean.

Dean accepts it all, for awhile, but eventually he pulls away and Sam finds himself kissing air.

He looks down and sees that Dean is smiling at him, already trying to step away. This is the usual routine. But Sam isn't even close to being done. Not tonight. Tonight he wants more.

He moves forward and tilts his head, bringing his lips to the curve of Dean's throat. He bestows tiny kisses upon him, his tongue tasting salty skin as one hand slides up under Dean's shirt.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing?"

Sam pulls away long enough to whisper, "I need you," before his lips once again lock onto Dean's.

He slips his tongue inside Dean's mouth, alternating between exploring every inch of him and pulling back to bite down on that incredibly pouty lower lip of his. He's on fire now, every shared kiss is bringing him closer to the point where thoughts are immaterial and all that matters is touching and tasting and having.

Placing one hand against Dean's back to hold him in place, he brings his other hand to the waistband of his jeans. He rubs his groin hard against Dean's leg as he clumsily tries to undo the buttons with only one hand.

Dean groans and manages to disentangle himself from Sam's clutches. He pushes him away, not unkindly, but still hard enough to cause him to stumble.

"I think we'd better stop, Sam."

If this had been any other night, Sam would have agreed instantly. If his brother wanted to stop, then stop they did - he never wanted to push Dean beyond what he was comfortable with.

But tonight is different. Tonight the alcohol in his system is clouding his thinking and putting his libido into overdrive. He doesn't want to stop. He's not even sure if he can.

He shakes his head and grabs Dean again. "Can't stop. Want you, Dean. I need you. So bad."

Dean makes a small noise in his throat that is neither denial nor consent. But in Sam's mind, Dean has just told him yes.

He half drags, half pulls Dean over to the bed, where they both tumble onto it. The alcohol, while making him horny as hell, is also killing his coordination, and it takes far too long to pry the clothes away from Dean's body. By the time he has rid himself of his own clothing, he is near bursting.

But despite his fuzzy thoughts and the driving sense of urgency, he still manages to stop long enough to gaze down at his brother sprawled underneath him. "Are you ready?"

"Is this what you want?"

"Oh God, yes."

"Then I'm ready, Sammy."

Sam moans, his lust igniting all over again at hearing those words uttered by his brother's deep, smoky voice.

He enters Dean as slowly and carefully as he can, mindful of the fact that they have no lubricant save for his pre-cum. Even then, it is obvious from Dean's wincing and gasps that he is in pain. Sam stills and for a moment considers pulling out and stopping completely. But the heat and friction that Dean's body is providing is simply too much. Instead of pulling out, he pushes himself farther in, quelling his guilt by telling himself that Dean will find this pleasurable soon enough.

As he begins to thrust in and out, all thoughts simply disintegrate until there is nothing left but pure ecstacy. He is so lost in that ecstacy that he forgets to worry about whether Dean is still in pain or whether he's enjoying this or not.

The orgasm that comes soon after is mind-blowing in its intensity and for a wonderfully frightening moment, Sam thinks that he's going to pass out. He rides it out, calling his brother's name in a hoarse voice that sounds like a stranger's.

As soon as it's over, he flops onto his back next to Dean, finding that his arms don't seem to want to hold him up anymore. He lays there for a time, one hand possessively on Dean's chest, waiting for his heart to stop pounding and his breathing to slow.

"That was . . . so amazing . . . " he says.

Dean shifts a little underneath his hand, and Sam turns his head to look at him. "Oh God, Dean," he says, suddenly realizing that he has selfishly taken everything and given nothing. "You didn't even get to . . . Let me . . . let me return the favor."

Dean shakes his head. "No. I'm fine, Sam."

"But I could . . . " Sam begins, although truth be told, he's not sure he could do anything right now. He's feeling more than a little dizzy and his body seems to have been drained of all energy.

"No," Dean says, wincing as he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "You don't have to, Sam, really."

"Are you ok? Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Well, where are you going?"

"I'm just going to take a quick shower, that's all."

Sam reaches out and grabs a hold of Dean's wrist before he can stand. "Dean, wait."

"What?"

"I love you. So much. Thank you for that."

"I love you too."

Sam releases his wrist and watches him walk away, reveling in how gorgeous Dean's body is. So strong. So perfect. He stares at him until he disappears behind the bathroom door, then he turns his eyes to the ceiling. He's almost certain that this is what heaven will feel like. The perfect combination of pleasure and peace.

He plans to stay awake until Dean comes out so he can hold him close and thank him again for what they just shared. He wants to tell him again how much he loves him and how happy he is. But the alcohol and the post-orgasmic haze conspire against him until his eyes slip closed and sleep claims him.

Dean closes the door behind him, wishing desperately that he could lock it. But if he did, then Sam would somehow hear. And then he would wonder why.

And that would start a chain-reaction that cannot possibly be allowed to reach its conclusion.

He moves to stand in the front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. For a moment, he is possessed by an almost overwhelming urge to smash it into little pieces. To simply take his fist and ram it through the glass until there is nothing left but wicked, little shards. And then to take those shards and drag them across the tender skin of his face over and over and over.

Dean is beginning to hate his face. Sam is always calling him beautiful, right before he cradles his face in his hands and kisses him.

Dean wonders if Sam would still want to touch him if his face was a bloody ruin.

He pushes away the urges to violence and turns away from his reflection. Then he turns on the shower, turns it on as hot as he can stand it, grabs a washcloth and steps under the spray.

He scrubs as hard as he can at his skin, but it's not enough. What he wants to do is scrub right _through_ his skin, right through to the shame and disgust underneath. They are like a cancer, a black cancer that just keeps spreading and spreading. He wants to be rid of it, to pull this disease from his soul and stomp on it until it's nothing more than a memory.

He wants to stop feeling Sam's hands on his body. He wants to stop feeling Sam inside of him.

He wants to throw up, but he can't - Sam will hear. He wants to cry, but he can't - Sam will hear.

So he does the only thing he can do. He scrubs and scrubs until his skin turns a bright red and blood begins to rise to the surface. He tosses away the washcloth in frustration. He's rubbed himself raw and nothing has changed.

He wishes he could simply tell Sammy that he wants to stop what they're doing. In his fantasies he sits down with Sam, explains to him that what they're doing isn't right, that brothers don't behave like this, and Sam accepts it with a nod and a smile.

If only.

But he knows he can never say anything. Sam is happy now. For the first time in so long - maybe ever - Sam is truly happy. Dean knows he can't take this away from him.

If it weren't for him, Sam would be in law school right now, making wedding plans with Jess. He knows this. Knows this as surely as if he had seen it mapped out before his very eyes.

He owes this to Sam and he accepts that.

Now if only he could stop wanting to die every time Sam touches him.

Dean stands under the water spray as he long as he feels he can without attracting Sam's suspicion. Then he shuts off the water, grabs a towel and dries himself. He has to be careful, Sam was not exactly gentle and he hurts.

He wanders back out to the room, feeling an immense relief when he sees that Sam is already asleep. Quietly, he turns out all the lights, then he crawls into bed next to Sam. Sam would hate it if he woke up and Dean was in the other bed.

He lays there in the dark, fighting tears and listening to his brother's soft snores. He feels very alone and afraid. Now that they've done . . . _this_ . . . he knows that Sam will want it again and again.

He does not sleep for a very long time.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's notes: The final chapter wherein Dean finally breaks, Sam finally gets a clue and the readers get closure (maybe).

Unholy (Part 3)

"_Love that is not madness is not love."_

Dean stares up at the dingy yellow ceiling of the latest motel room, only vaguely aware of the thrusts that move his body up and down against starchy sheets.

He is quickly becoming a master at the art of disconnection from reality. Sometimes he manages to make the disconnect complete. During these times he lets his mind float in a void, never allowing any one thought to stay in his head for too long.

Sometimes, when he can't achieve that state, he does what he's doing tonight, naming various monsters and the ways to kill them. And while it's not as effective as the total disconnect, it is better than being aware of what is happening within his body.

Right now he is on 'vampire'. Pulling loose words long ingrained in his memory, he recites them silently.

Stake through the heart.

Fire.

Decapitation.

He's about to move onto 'werewolf' when he feels Sam shudder and stiffen. He shifts his gaze and focuses on his brother's face above him. Sam's entire body is taut, the tendons in his neck standing out in an almost frightening way. He looks like he's in great pain and for a moment Dean is tempted to reach up and soothe it away. But then Sam moans out his name and his entire body relaxes and Dean chastises himself for being foolish.

Sam sighs contentedly, and allows his body to drop so that his full weight is almost on Dean. He nuzzles Dean's neck and gives it a quick kiss before lifting his head.

"You are so wonderful," he breathes out, sounding like he's just run a marathon.

At this, Dean places one hand on the side of Sam's face. His Sammy. He forces a smile, knowing that Sam will think it odd if he doesn't at least try to look as satisfied as he does.

Sam gives him a small peck on the lips before rolling off of him, one hand possessively on his chest as always.

"You going to take your shower now?" he asks in a slightly teasing tone.

Dean licks lips which are suddenly much too dry and whispers, "Yeah."

Whereas Dean considers himself the master of disconnecting, he sees Sam as the master of self-delusion. Sam believes what he wants to believe and sees what he wants to see. He does not see how sometimes Dean forgets himself and flinches from his touch. He does not notice how quiet Dean becomes after their lovemaking. When Dean occasionally has to run to the bathroom to be noisily sick, Sam asks him if what he ate is disagreeing with him. He sees Dean's frequent showers as a curious idiosyncracy and nothing more.

And he has long since stopped trying to return the favor and bring Dean to orgasm, choosing instead to believe that the sex is mutually satisfying for both of them.

This last is what worries Dean more than anything else. Not because he _wants_ Sam to return the favor, in fact the thought of Sam's hands or mouth on him is almost more than he can handle, but because his brother is so far gone that his reality is no longer even recognizable.

Dean allows Sam to cuddle and kiss him briefly before he manages to extricate himself from his embrace. It is all he can do to stop himself from running to the bathroom. The need to feel clean is almost overpowering as is the need to let the mask drop and stop pretending that this is all ok.

He gives Sam a small kiss on the forehead before he goes and for a brief moment he is reminded of when he and Sam were just children. Back then Sam would not go to bed unless he got a kiss on the forehead from his big brother. It was their own private little ritual, something that their father never knew about.

He has to bite back on the sob that threatens to tear loose from his throat and moves away quickly.

Once inside the bathroom, he closes the door and stands in front of the mirror, ready to go through his usual routine. Every few days it's a different bathroom, a different mirror, but this . . . this is always the same. He stares at his reflection, his very hated reflection, and once again lets his thoughts turn dark with violence. He wonders how much it would hurt to smash his fist into it. He wonders how much it would hurt if he took the mirror's glass, dug it in at his temple and made his way down.

His breathing begins to quicken as his expression turns pained.

_Why can't Sammy just see? Why can't Sammy just stop? _

He raises his hand and brings it to the glass, letting his fingertips touch its smooth surface.

_Why can't things be the way they were? Why can't this all just go away? Why doesn't it all just fucking go away?_

Acting on impulse, he draws his hand back, curls it into a fist and brings it crashing into the mirror with as much force as he can muster.

The mirror shatters into a thousand pieces, just as his fantasies told him it would. He pulls his hand back and stares at it in awe. He is bleeding; long rivulets are blood are already snaking their way down past his wrist to touch his elbow before dropping to the floor. He looks closer, sees that there are a multitude of small gashes in his skin. Some however, are very long and deep. As he continues to stare, he realizes that bits of glass are still embedded in his flesh.

The pain hits then and he sinks to his knees from the force of it. He tries to breathe through it; finds that he can't. He glances down at the floor and realizes that there's too much blood - he must have nicked an artery. The thought of bleeding out here in this nowhere motel does not bother him in the slightest. It is the knowledge that Sam has surely heard and that he will be running in here any second that causes Dean's stomach to contract in fear.

He cannot believe that he has been so fucking stupid; that he has been so weak.

He turns his head at the unmistakable sound of Sam slamming open the door.

"Are you ok? I was calling you and . . . "

Dean angles his head and looks up at him. He tries to say Sam's name but his voice fails him and all that emerges is a stricken whisper.

Sam drops down to his knees next to him and gingerly reaches out to touch the bloody mess that is his hand. He stops short and touches Dean's face instead.

In a horrified voice, he asks, "What have you done?"

Both of them know that Sam's real question here is "Why?", and since Dean does not have a pat or easy answer to give, he merely shakes his head.

Sam makes a noise of frustration and grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it tightly around Dean's hand. Dean whimpers at the renewed pain but says nothing.

"Keep it elevated. I'm going to call 911," Sam orders before running back to the other room.

Any other time and Dean would have protested, but since his vision is starting to go a little fuzzy and the blood is already staining the towel a bright crimson, he figures this time a hospital isn't such a bad idea.

By the time Sam comes back, Dean's world has begun to fade into black and all he can do is fall into his brother's arms gratefully.

Sam walks down the hospital's hallway in slow, measured steps. He's thinking even as he moves, his mind rapidly running through all possible options and scenarios. Every few seconds the conversation he's just had with Dean's doctor interrupts his thoughts and replays itself in his head. He is so intent on all of this that he almost misses the door to his brother's room. He stops abruptly, placing his hand on the door handle, then hesitates. A few moments ago he had been desperate to get back to Dean; now he's not at all sure that he can go inside. He's not sure that he can face his brother after what he's done.

A questioning look from a nurse walking by snaps him out of his indecision. He knows he has to go inside. Dean is expecting him. He takes a deep breath and steels himself before opening the door and entering.

He finds Dean in the exact same position as before - on his back in the uncomfortable hospital bed, one hand sporting an IV and a pulse ox while the other is wrapped almost mummy-like in bandages. He looks pale and worn and tired and the circles under his eyes are so dark they resemble bruises.

It is all too eerily reminiscent of Dean's last hospital stay . . . except that this time it is he himself who has put his brother here. The urge to run away from all of this is strong, but Sam knows he cannot give in to it. He has to stay. He owes Dean at least that much.

He softly says, "Hey," before grabbing the room's sole chair and sitting down next to the bed.

Dean looks at him, his eyes widening just a little. To anyone else Dean would see calm, but Sam knows his brother well enough to know that he is quite agitated.

"Sam. They're telling me that they're going to keep me here. For three days. For a psych evaluation. But they can't do that, right? Not if I don't want to stay?"

Sam nods and places his hand gently on Dean's.

"Yeah, I know. I just got back from talking to your doctor and the hospital's psychiatrist."

"But . . . "

"They can keep you here if they can show that you're a danger to others or to yourself."

"But I'm not."

"Dean, you put your fist completely through a mirror. You punched out the back. Do you have any idea how lucky you are that you didn't slice any tendons or sever a nerve?"

For a moment, Dean looks as though he's about to argue but realizes that it would be pointless. "Well then, you've gotta help me bust out of here, Sammy. It can't be that hard. It's not like there's security to keep people in here."

"Dean, I can't do that."

"Why not?"

Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. What he's about to do is not going to be easy - for either of them. He wants to follow Dean's request and take him away from here, lay him down on a soft bed and hold him until he's healed. But he can't. He can't hurt his brother anymore. God help him; he's been doing it for months now, blinding himself to Dean's pain.

But he has made up his mind. It is ending here.

It has to.

"I don't think staying here is a bad idea, Dean."

"Sam, they want to keep me here like some kind of prisoner while they head-shrink me. How can that be a good thing?"

"I think it would be good if you talked to someone about what happened to you. I think these people can help you."

"What are you talking about? Nothing _happened_ to me. I was tired and upset about the hunt. It's no big deal."

"You smashed your own reflection in the mirror."

"It was an accident, Sam. I just meant to hit it."

Sam sighs. "You don't have to lie to me, Dean. Not anymore. Please."

"Come on! Guys do stuff like that all the time. They get upset. They hit things."

"Dean . . . "

"What, Sam? What? What do you want me to say?"

Sam lets his head drop as he tries to gather his thoughts. He knew this was going to be hard, just as he knew Dean would fight what he was saying every step of the way, he just didn't think it would be this hard.

He lifts his head back up, the tears already sliding down his face. "I am so sorry."

"Sam . . . "

"All this time, I honestly believed that you were ok with this. All this time I never realized what it was doing to you."

"Please don't, Sam."

"Why, Dean? Why would you let me make . . . have sex with you if you weren't ok?"

Dean stares down at the blanket that covers him as if fascinated by it. "You were happy. I liked seeing you happy."

"Oh, God."

The raw agony in Sam's voice brings Dean's head back up. "Sam, it's ok."

But Dean is wrong. It is not ok. How can it be? He is a monster. He is worse than anything they've ever hunted. And even now, even after everything he's done, Dean is still trying to help him, trying to make things better for him.

But he does not want any kind of absolution. He does not deserve it.

"When you were four, Dad put me in your arms and told you to take me," Sam says. "And you haven't let go since then, have you? Even when you've been dying inside."

That earns him a scowl. "Stop being so melodramatic, Sam!"

"I'm not. That's just it. I'm not. You are always taking care of me. Even at your own expense. Always."

"That's my job, Sammy."

Sam sniffs and straightens, wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. "Well, not anymore, it isn't. You're going to take care of yourself for once. You let me worry about me."

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to stay here. You're going to talk to the psychiatrist. You're going to tell him the truth. And you're going to let him help you."

"I am, huh?"

"Yes."

"And what are _you_ going to be doing all this time?"

"I'm not sure. I need to go somewhere and think some things through. Think about what the hell's wrong with me that I did this to you."

"Stop saying that! You didn't _do _anything to me. I was there too, you know. I'm an adult."

Those words conjure up an image of Dean naked and spread underneath him. Sam turns from him with a sickened groan. God, what was wrong with him? To even now have these sick thoughts . . .

He really is a monster. There is no other conclusion that he can possibly draw.

"Sam?"

"I need time. I can't be around you, Dean. Not now. Just do what I'm asking, please."

"But I don't need . . . "

"Please! Just do this! For once, don't argue!" He can't help but to shout the entreaty. He has to make Dean understand.

"Fine. Fine, Sam. But . . . "

"But what?"

"You'll come back for me right? After three days? You'll come back?"

The uncertainty, the downright _fear_ in Dean's voice causes Sam's heart to constrict painfully. He musters a smile for his brother, trying to make it reassuring and confident. "Of course I will."

The lie rolls off his tongue so easily that Sam is sure Dean will see right through it. But he merely looks relieved. And very tired.

"You're exhausted. Get some sleep."

Dean nods. "I am pretty wiped."

"Go to sleep. I'll be right here til you do."

"And when I wake up?"

Sam leans forward and runs his fingers through Dean's hair. "They'll transfer you to the psych ward and I'll be gone."

"But you'll be back." This time there is no uncertainty whatsoever in Dean's voice.

"Yes," Sam says.

"In three days."

"In three days," Sam echoes.

Dean smiles slightly and closes his eyes.

"I love you, Sammy. Don't be mad," he mutters as sleep begins to overtake him.

Sam kisses his forehead and whispers, "Never."

Dean falls asleep within a matter of minutes. True to his word, Sam waits until he is completely under before he leaves.

Three days. He has three days to purge himself of the worst kind of unholy thoughts and desires. And if he can't . . .

The thought causes him to falter in mid-step. If he can't, then he'll just have to take a cue from dear old dad and disappear.

Either way he won't hurt Dean again. Ever.

One of the nurses flashes a smile at him as he walks by their station. "We'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Winchester?"

He returns the smile. "Of course you will."


End file.
